


It's a Dog's Life

by cakeisnotpie



Series: Clint and Phil (MCU Avengers Universe) [25]
Category: Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Animal Transformation, Corgis, Coulson family - Freeform, Cuddles, Cute Kids, Established Relationship, Family, Family Fluff, Just one big ball of fluff and wonder, M/M, Married Couple, Puppies, clint's a corgi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-12 03:41:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9053782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cakeisnotpie/pseuds/cakeisnotpie
Summary: Clint gets turned into a corgi. What will he do when he overhears some plotting? Part of the Clint/Phil series.  Isabella is 6 and Joshua is 4. Unremitting Fluff.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Psistriker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Psistriker/gifts).



> For Psistriker who sent me a Christmas card with a corgi on it that got the creative juices flowing. Merry Christmas, Kathleen!

Being an Avenger meant never knowing what the day would bring. Long spans of time went by with nothing to do but training and planning for the next battle. Then all hell would break loose with a chain of villains lined up one after the other, non-stop fighting without sleep. Mostly, the world was on the line or innocent lives were in danger or an asteroid was hurtling towards the earth, but sometimes it was magic spells and sentient fish and giant dinosaur bones brought to life. All sorts of insanity;  so far, the strangest had been when Amora bespelled Steve and Tony to speak only in rhyming iambic pentameter … or maybe when Natasha got trapped in a vat of marshmallow fluff.

 

But this? This was a whole new level of weird. A wave of sound, a tremor in the ground, and Clint felt like his insides were twisting into a spiral and folding into a tiny cube. His brain rattled, his lungs squeezed tight, and then there was only the smell of grass in his nose and a whistling sound in his ears. He tried to grab his bow, but his fingers didn’t work; in fact, his fingers weren’t fingers. He couldn’t bend his elbow to raise his hand; instead, he dipped his head, his nose sniffling at the the rounded flesh covered in short bristly blonde hair, nails dug into the dirt. He looked around, the expanse of ground littered with lumps and bumps -- paper and gum and rocks and bits of food and his earpiece.  Standing up wasn’t an option … no he was standing, but his legs were stumpy and short, his belly nearly brushing the earth as he waddled forward on four paws.

 

“Arf!” His bark was half-growl as the truth hit home. He was a dog; whatever that damn gun had shot at him had turned him into a dog. A little one to boot.

 

A paw caught in the strap of his quiver and he tumbled ass over end, tangling up in his vest and shirt and nosediving into a bush. He shook his head, tried to back out of the prickly branches, but his belt wrapped around one and he was well and truly stuck. A whine escaped as a broken branch scratched his soft underbelly.

 

“xxx, fella, you xxxx help?”  A soft voice preceded warm hands that began to unwind the material. “Who xxx xxx xx this? It’s far too big xxx x little guy xxxxx xxx.”

 

Blonde, a ponytail, sunglasses, earbuds … a woman out for a jog in the park; she cooed as she freed him, cradling him to her chest as she picked him up. He wiggled, wanting down, and she sat him on the concrete path.

 

“Xxx who do you belong xx, eh? Out here xx xx yourself?” she asked.

 

“Barton?” Phil stopped and picked up the uniform on the ground. “What xxx …”

 

“Xxxx a cute xxxx!” The woman held Clint up and touched her nose to his. “Xxxx was caught in the xxxx, weren’t xxx sweetie?”

 

“The bush?” For a moment, Phil was flummoxed, but then he pulled it together. “Xxx, xx does that; he thinks xxx bigger than xx is.”

 

“I think the xxxxxx were xxxx of xxx problem,” she said. Strong woman, taking on Phil Coulson over a dog. “xxxxxxxx not a good xxxx.”

 

“Yeah, I xxxxxx, but xx daughter loves to xxxx dress xx.” Ever efficient, Phil had the pieces in his pack, slinging the quiver over one shoulder, and the bow over the other. “She’s got x xxxxx for the Avengers.”

 

“Oh, Barton! Xx xxxxx.” The woman handed Clint to Phil. “I get it xxx. Wow, xxxxx look like real …”

 

Phil cut her off as he tucked Clint under one arm. “Thank you xx xxxx for helpxxx. We appreciate it.”

 

With that he turned on his heel and left.  Clint rode along, bobbing his head as Phil carried him. He tried not to think about how his tongue was hanging out, focusing instead on the many sensations he felt. With his hearing aids gone, voices were floating in and out, but his range of sound was vastly expanded. The tweet that let walkers know it was safe to cross the street. A whistling as wind whipped through a building crane. And all the smells he’d never noticed -- Phil’s deodorant, the dry cleaning solution on his suit, a faint strawberry mint that was Natasha’s shampoo.

 

Rather than try to understand what Phil was telling her -- probably that Clint had been turned into a dog -- he wiggled and yipped to be put down. Doggy bladders, it turned out, are tiny; as soon as Phil set him on the path, he darted behind a bush and lifted his leg. Trotting back, he woofed a thank you.  

 

*You think you’re cute?* Natasha signed.

 

“Arf,” he replied. The least he could do was enjoy this temporary change. He hoped it was temporary.

 

*Taking you to medical* Phil was so tall; Clint jumped up, putting his paws on Phil’s legs.

 

“Woof.” He shook his head and cut off the sound sharply. There was no need to go to medical. He was a dog, not hurt or in pain.

 

*Yes, medical* It was like his husband knew him or something. Clint gave a doggy sigh and accepted his fate.

 

By the time SHIELD called in a vet who, after a far too thorough examination, agreed that Clint was a healthy corgi, the whole afternoon was wasted. And didn’t that burn his poor ego; why not a golden shepherd or labrador retriever? Well, at least he wasn’t a yapper, one of those little pocket book pups. They’d left him alone in the med bay room, Phil off talking to Fury and all the staff busy with Clint’s test results, with an empty water bowl and no food, a fact his rumbling stomach wouldn’t let him forget. And he had to pee again. Claws clicking as he roved the room; last thing he wanted to do was have an accident on the floor. Being a dog was bad enough.

 

Eying the furniture, he nosed at the metal leg of the one chair, pushing it across the linoleum tiles. Slowly, he got it into the right position then he needed three tries and a running start to judge the distance and hop up on the seat.  From there, he pawed at the handle until it clicked and the door swung open. Down the hallway as fast as his little legs could carry him, he made a break for it; he knew the way from medical to Phil’s office like the back of his hand, but, strangely, things looked different. His depth perception was off, the colors not quite right, and when did the ceilings get so fucking tall? Nails clicked as he scampered between legs, darting around tables and made it into a hallway only to careen against a wall and bounce back to his feet. Tummy brushing along the floor, he stretched as far as his very, very short legs would let him, putting on a burst of speed that separated him from his pursuers. An open locker made a good hiding place; he put a paw over the edge to keep the door from closing all the way and waited until everything fell quiet.

 

One benefit, it seemed, was better hearing;he followed the sounds down the corridor and even heard beeps from medical and the splash of water from the locker room showers. For a few seconds he lay, panting, thinking of his next move. If this was the men’s area … and the smell of Old Spice backed that up … then he was the opposite direction from where he needed to be. But first things first, he was thirsty,  he needed to pee and there was no way he was going to make a mess here. Sniffing and listening, he crawled out and darted under the bench, scuttling along on his belly to the bathroom. He fit easily under a stall, but the toilet was out of his reach; he could jump but he’d fall in.  Then he saw the shower area; peeking around the corner, he found two showers in use, curtains drawn over the end of the dressing areas. The water hid his approach to an empty stall next door to a set of hairy feet; crouching over the drain, he sighed … yeah, dogs sighed … as the overflow washed away all evidence. Then it was back to the toilet for a long drink … he reasoned it was fresh water, right? … and he was ready to go.

 

“XXX seriously considering XX?” A voice came from  “I mean, XXXX, I get it, X really XX  but, XXX, once you XXXX that step …”

 

“Fuck ‘em XXX.” The second voice was deeper, angrier. “I’m sick XXX fucking tired XX XXX grandstanding and XXXXX hogging asswipe Stark XXX XXXXX others. Jesus, XX they XXXX care who XXXX hurt? We’re on XXX freakin’ ground, right XX the middle XX XX, XXXX blow shit XX without thinking XXXXX us.”

 

“But …”

 

“XXX them see how XXXX like XX,” Anger Guy said. “Hell, they’XX the reason XXXl these asshole villains XXX showing XX in New York. Nope, X’X going to XX  it. Now XXX you in or not? X XXXX you need XXX cash.”

 

Tentatively, Clint stuck his snout out and sniffed. Motor oil, traces of salt, a bit of grease, and … chamomile? That couldn’t be right, but that’s what he smelled. He couldn’t see anything but towering men, bare skin, white towels wrapped around their waists, backs to him. Crawling back into the stall as they turned to go, his brain replayed the conversation and he didn’t like the conclusion he came to.

 

“Hey,” someone shouted in the locker room. “Barton’s XXXX XXXXXX  XXXX a dog and he’s loose XXXXXXXXX in HQ. I need boots XX XXXXX XXX search area.”

 

“Aw, fuckin’ XXXX. I XXX XXXXX  off shift,” the younger voice replied. “XXXX XXX XX’X headed to Coulson’s office XXX XXXX he’s XXX ball-and-chained XXXX kids. Just send someone XXXXX to watch XXX  him.”

 

“XXX’XX on watch detail. XXX get your asses XX gear XXX  let’s go.”

 

Clint waited until the footsteps receded then he scampered along the lockers, pausing to sniff the air. He caught a familiar scent; honing in on it, he dashed from room to room, hiding behind plants and under tables as he followed the trail of coriander and jasmine. Down two sets of stairs, he was panting by the time he got to the hanger bay and into the open quinjet. He found a dark corner under the seats and hunkered down as four sets of shoes, two SHIELD issued boots, one military shitkickers, and a pair of expensive Italian loafers.

 

Tony’s cologne was strong but not as overwhelming as the stench coming from the older man. He just smelled … wrong. Like rotten potatoes and stinky fish wrapped in old fried onions. Clint scooted out on his belly, far enough to tip his head up and see the white hair and rows of medals across his chest.

 

“Listen, Stark.You’re XXX about fame XXX glory, XXX cameras XXX XXX press. National XXXXXXXX is more important XXXX XXXX ego,” the General said. “XXX can’t unilaterally XXX action XX XXX country XXX please.”

 

“The Avengers XXX’X under U.S. Military XXXXXXX, Ross. Nor XXXX XXXX ever be.” Tony’s voice dripped with dislike. “XXX you’re XXX  last person I’d trust XXXXXXXX near us. XXX get off XX plane; I’m late XXX lunch XXXX Pepper.”

 

“I’m going XX XXX tower, Stark.” Ross sat down right above Clint; hiding his nose in his paws, Clint folded into the tiny space behind a med kit. “I XXXX X meeting XXXX XXXX R & D division; you XXXX XX work XXX us, you know.”

 

“Whatever.” Tony stalked to the pilot seat and dropped into it. “Strap XX. X’X flying.”

 

The quinjet lifted up with a jerk; the SHIELD guys held onto to roll bars. Ross yelped as he banged his head on the wall. Clint bounced against the metal floor, shrinking into the niche between the strut and the outer shell; Tony was making the flight as rough as possible. He’d probably turned off the autopilot and was jerking the controls on purpose. Glad he hadn’t had anything to eat, Clint whimpered quietly, the noise hidden by the roar of the engines.

 

They landed with a hard thump; Ross grumbled and stood up, not waiting for a complete stop. He stumbled as Tony let the engines rev and give them one more shake. As the ramp extended, Happy Hogan walked up and nodded to the General.

 

“They’re waiting XXX you, sir. I’ll XX XXXX to escort you XXXX,” Hogan said.

 

“I know XXX way,” Ross blustered. “XXXX XX your doing, Stark.”

 

“My building, my rules. Better not XXXX Joanna waiting; she’s X stickler XXX punctuality.” Tony waited until the jet was empty, watching Ross all the way to the door. “You can XXXX out XXX, Clint. They’re gone.”

 

Crawling from his hiding spot, Clint looked up and yipped, wishing he could talk. He settled for nudging Tony’s toe and pattering down the ramp. When Tony didn’t follow, he ran back up, did it again, added an insistent bark and made for the door.

 

“Okay, Lassie, you want XX to follow XXX? Is Timmy XXXX the well, boy?” Tony kept his face turned Clint’s way, his lips in view. “God, I’ve XXX to get video XX you. XXXX is perfect.”

 

Barking three times, Clint turned in a circle and jumped at the elevator button. The door slid open and he darted inside. Four barks, pause, three more, and the 43rd floor button lit.  

 

“How XXX …?” Tony shook his head, turned and mumbled something that Clint’s couldn’t hear.

 

As soon as the doors opened, Clint scampered down the hall, running for his and Phil’s apartment. Thank God for Jarvis, who understood the Morse code Clint barked, letting him in; barreling through the living room, looking for Maggie and the kids.

 

“XXXXX, Clint, what’s going XX?” Tony asked from the doorway. “You’re acting XXXX your tail is on XXXX.”

 

“PUPPY!” Bella tore across the floor, arm extended and curls bouncing. “Uncle Tony XXX us a puppy!”

 

From his perspective, Bella towered over him; at six-year-old, she’d hit a growth spurt and put on two inches. As she caught him up in a big hug, Clint woofed, his daughter squeezing him tight. Just behind her, four-year-old Josh paused, big brown eyes wide with delight. His daughter smelled of graham crackers and peanut butter, strawberry shampoo and fruit punch chapstick.

 

“Hey, no, that’s not ...” Tony reached for Clint but Bella spun to show their nanny..  

 

“Miss Maggie! Puppy!” Clint had no trouble hearing her shout of joy. Shaking his head, he barked out a few letters in morse code. “Won’t Papa and Daddy be surprised!”

 

“Look, Tinker Bella, X think XXXX’s been a …” Tony tried again, raising his voice to be heard over Bella’s squeals and Clint’s barking.

 

“Isabella.” Margaret’s voice was firm, her finger raised in the air. “Please XXX the XXX down. Remember, we XXXXXX animals carefully.”

 

Bella froze then untangled her arms from around Clint. “But, XXXX Maggie. He’s XX cute.”

 

Huffing in and out, Clint sat on his haunches. The morse code wasn’t working; it was taking too long and was too cumbersome. What he needed was some way to … right. That was it. He began to bark four letters, repeating them with quiet space in between.  The third time through, Margaret’s eyes narrowed and she listened intently.

 

“Ah.” Without so much as a hesitation, she tapped Josh on the shoulder and spoke to both children, enunciating each word clearly. “I believe this calls for a change in our schedule. Put your shoes and jackets on; we’ll join the Odinson’s at the park. Dogs need walks and room to run.”

 

“XXX park?” Bella danced in place, bouncing on her heels. “XXXX XXX doggie?”

 

“Yes. If you get ready quickly, I’ll let you both take a turn with the leash,” she replied.

 

Dashing down the hallway, Bella shouted with joy; Josh, who had yet to utter a word, clapped his hands and followed his sister.

 

“Clint, I presume?” Margaret addressed him directly.

 

Clint barked twice in reply.

 

With a brisk nod, she surveyed the room. “We’ll need a leash. Tony?”

 

“XXX’X look at XX.” Tony threw up his hands. “I’m XXX into that. Well, XXX in a long XXXX.”

 

Running into his and Phil’s bedroom, Clint dashed into the closet and caught the end of his motorcycle belts, the one with all the grommets.  He dragged his prize behind him as he trotted back into the living room.

 

“Very good.” Margaret took the belt, looped it around Clint’s neck and fastened loosely. “We can hope no one notices the lack of a dog tag.”

 

“Here.”  Tony pulled a fob off of the key ring in his pocket. “If XXXXX needs to get XXXX XXX Tower, this XXXX open the XXXX.”

 

In short order they started out to the nearby park, a favorite because of the upgraded playground equipment and the little pond. Clint positioned himself between the kids, trotting along at their speed, keeping an eye out for any dangers.  When Tony had started to the door, Clint barred the way, nose pointing to a picture of Phil until Tony got the message. Clint was finding it hard to keep focused, his brain jumping from smell to smell, easily distracted by a new sound or movement.  He discovered he could sense Josh’s anxieties early; they passed a group of bodybuilders and Josh shrank into his jacket, ducking his head. Nudging his head under Josh’s hand, Clint licked his son’s fingers and let him scratch his chin. Food was particularly of interest; the coffee shop at the corner of the park made Clint’s stomach rumble so loud that Bella laughed.  Finally, he smelled honey and sweat and creosote from chemical burners and found Jane seated on a bench, Thor following Torunn as she tottled across the grass.

 

Running a circle, he began barking; Thor stopped, his eyes widened and then he let out a chuckle.

 

“‘Tis a good thing I am on Earth,” he told Clint. “Or else you’d have no one to talk to, little friend! Jane, XXX don’t you XXXX the children to XXX … what is the XXXXX spinning thing Tor enjoys so XXXX?”

 

“XXX merry-go-round.” Jane stood, well used to her husband’s change of plans. “But XX XXX  throws up, it’s your turn to XXXX XXXX of it.”

 

“XXXX’X why we XXXX before eating, is XX not?” Thor snagged his daughter with one hand and passed her to her mother. “I will join you XXXXXXX; our friend XXXX needs a word.”

 

Bella, of course, didn’t go easily despite the lure of one of her favorite rides. “XX’X a dog, Thor. XX can’t talk.”

 

“Ah, not XX Xa language you understand,” Thor replied. “But I can speak to all XXXXXXX, did you XX know?”

 

“All of ‘em?” Josh asked, staring up reverently at the Asgardian. “XXXX otters?”

 

“Even otters,” Thor assured him. “Now XXX along and play; perhaps we XXXX have those yummy cookies XXXXX we return to XXX tower.”

 

The promise of play time and an oatmeal raisin cookie did the trick; Margaret and Jane made sure the children were never out-of-site as they walked them over to the colorful equipment.  Clint made short work of explaining everything to Thor; as he told him about what he’d overheard and Ross’s visit to the Tower, Thor’s face darkened.

 

“I like this not,” he leaned close, speaking directly into Clint’s ear. “I shall call Tony and explain; he can keep an eye on the General while we protect the children.”  

 

As Thor took out his phone, a hotdog cart rolled by; Clint’s stomach rumbled and he whined. Waving at the vendor, Thor stopped him.  “Two plain hot dogs and a polish sausage with spicy mustard and relish.”  

 

After he paid, Thor put the white paper wrapped food on the bench and Clint jumped up to eat. He wolfed down the first hot dog then slowed on the second, stopping to lap up the water Thor poured in a thermos top from the diaper bag at his feet. Not focusing on Thor’s conversation, Clint, belly full, now had an insistent bladder; hopping down, he headed for some small bushes to relieve himself.  He could still see the kids playing; Bella was holding onto the metal pole, hair whipping around as she spun. Torunn was on her back, her head in the middle of the metal circle, begging her mother the go faster.  Josh had found the oversized blocks kept inside a plastic climbing wall and was fast at work building some kind of structure.

 

A sudden sound of rustling leaves perked up his ears; he turned his head in time to see a guy in black materialize from behind some bushes, a gun in one hand and a hypodermic needle in the other.  Two more appeared; one raised their gun and a soft whump sounded as a feathered dart flew; it sank into Margaret’s shoulder and she folded over without a word, sinking to the ground.

 

Clint didn’t wait to see any more; running as fast his little legs could carry him, he charged at the nearest attacker, his barrel chest rumbling with a deep growl. Lunging, he latched onto the guy’s calf, sinking teeth through cotton dress pants. With a curse, the attacker tried to shake him off; Clint dropped to the ground and circled, sitting back on his haunches and jumping as high as he could. His mouth closed around the man’s crotch and he bit hard enough to make him fold over in pain. This was a fight for his kids’ safety; Clint was damn well going to fight dirty.

 

With one down, Clint targeted the man aiming at Josh; the black dress shoes left his heel bare and Clint went straight for his achilles tendon, leaving blood running down his leg.  A crackle of static electricity told Clint that Thor was fighting too; Josh was hiding behind his wall of blocks, Bella and Torunn with him. Jane was knocked out, slumped over the merry-go-round.

 

“Fucking XXX.”  A man aimed his gun at Clint, blocking his view of the playground. His finger tightened on the trigger; Clint charged, knowing he couldn’t close the distance.  Didn’t matter; he could buy time for Thor to save the kids. That was his priority. He dodged, the man pulled the trigger and the sound of bullets echoed through the park.

* * *

 

Phil braced his hand against the elevator wall, the weight of the day finally overwhelming him. Those few seconds kept playing in his mind’s eye … the rogue agent raising his gun, Clint charging across the grass on his short legs, Josh’s wide eyes watching it all. If Phil had arrived any later, things would be much different. After he brought in the reinforcements, they captured the eight assailants with ease; Margaret and Jane were still sleeping off the effects of the tranquilizers, a standard SHIELD issue to add insult to injury, and Thor had taken all three children and flown them straight back to the Tower. The men didn’t try to hide their motive, declaring from the onset that the Avengers were SHIELD’s biggest problem; by privileging a handful of divas like Stark, other SHIELD programs had been cut or gone untended. Their plan had been to kidnap the kids and demand the Avenger program be disbanded in favor of humans instead of aliens and lab experiments … their words, not Phil’s.

 

Unfortunately, Phil was sure these eight weren’t the only ones involved in this movement. For one, none of the men were high enough level agents to access intel about the Avengers.  Nor were they creative thinkers or leaders; they were all followers, the kinds who took orders and did what they were told.  General Ross had pled ignorance, and there was no evidence his play to gain more control wasn’t just coincidence.  Phil tended to believe Ross wouldn’t have approved using the kids as targets; no, Ross would have brought in special forces to storm the Tower, aiming for the Avengers themselves.

 

Still, he’d spun his wheels for over four hours during clean up and interrogation, assuring Fury and the WSC that Clint didn’t need to be under guard at headquarters. What Phil wanted more than anything was to take off his shoes, jacket, and tie, pour a finger of whiskey, and watch Bella and Josh sleep. Bordering on creepy, he knew, but every time one of them nearly died, Phil found himself hovering in the bedroom doorway, counting the rise and fall of little chests.  Something about the softness of their faces, the absolute innocence, kept him going.

 

Darcy unfolded from the comfy chair as he entered, turning off her ipod and taking out her earbuds. “Maggie woke up; I sent her back to bed. The kiddos have been out like a light since 8:30,” she told him. “Clint’s with them. He won’t leave their side. Damn cute, but don’t tell him I said that.”

 

“Thanks,” Phil told the retreating form.  “Jane’s okay?”

 

“All tucked in bed.” Darcy paused at the door. “Thor feed Torunn and sent me pics.  It’s a mess up there. Get some sleep, Phil. The Tower’s on lockdown.”

 

That’s what he should do, but first …

 

The shared Winnie the Pooh lamp had been replaced by a Tony Stark original star map that changed with the seasons.  Beneath the canopy of tiny lights, Bella lay on her stomach, her Paw Patrol sheet scrunched up around her feet and her cheek smashed into her purple cased pillow. Josh’s bed was empty; he’d climbed into his sister’s and curled up on his side facing her, his stuffed otter clutched to his chest.  In the sliver of space between them, golden fir gleamed as the stars spun, a black nose muzzled under Bella’s chin and Josh’s hand buried in Clint’s warmth.  Cracking one eye open, Clint lifted his head, woofed softly, wiggled his butt, and burrowed back in.

 

Phil should be the adult and go to his own bed, but they looked so sweet, a family pile that had room for one more.  He left his belt and his glass on top of the dresser and slipped in behind Bella, gently rolling her onto her side and snugly placing her against his chest. He ruffled Josh’s hair; Clint licked his hand and whined ever so slightly as he closed the distance, resting his head on Bella’s hip.  It was simple to pull Josh into the family pile, and then Phil closed his eyes, tucked his feet under the sheet and let himself finally rest.

 

**A WEEK LATER**

“No leads on who’s behind behind Normals Matter Most?” Margaret asked as she cut the crusts off two PB&J sandwiches and put them on paper towels. “That’s what the newspapers are calling them, the NMM.”  

 

Phil tugged Josh’s grape juice stained shirt off. “Dead ends everywhere. Someone’s hidden their tracks well.”

 

“Roar!” Josh bent his arms into his chest and let his hands go limp. “T-Rex hungry!”

 

“T-Rex has to go to the bathroom first,” Maggie told him. “Potty then wash your hands.”

 

With another roar, Josh stomped down the hall; he was going through a dinosaur phase. At least, Phil thought, that meant the Natural HIstory Museum was a great carrot for good behavior.

 

“Daddy.” Bella tugged Phil’s jacket. “Emily Jameson called me a liar.”

 

Dropping to one knee, Phil looked into his daughter’s watery green eyes.  “Sweetheart, what happened?”

 

“I told her that Papa was a dog and she said I made it up.  Said her grandpa told her you and Papa were just …” she paused then said in a tiny voice, “medium ores.”

 

“She’s a poopyhead!” Josh shouted from the hallway. “A dum dum, poopyhead.”

 

“Joshua Coulson.” Margaret’s hands rested on her hips as she stared him down. “We don’t use language like that.”

 

“But she is.” He held his ground. “She made Bella cry.”

 

“I know you’re being a good brother,” Phil said, “but we still don’t use bad words, Josh. Now get washed up, please.”  He waited until the bathroom door closed. “Bella, baby, remember you’re not supposed to talk about things that happen at your Daddy and Papa’s work?  It’s our secret.”

 

“But Papa was a doggy at home,” Bella answered, her lip trembling. “That’s not work.”

 

“That’s true.” Phil sighed; kids were so literal. “But be was turned into a dog at work. See?”

 

“Oh.” She bit her lip. “Are you mad ‘cause I spilled the means?”

 

Phil tamped down on the urge to smile. “No,baby, I’m not. And I’m sorry Emily said those things to you. Best thing you can do is ignore her; she’s probably just jealous of your Papa rescuing you when he was a dog.”

 

“Her daddy’s an assonaut; he’s nice.” She eyed the cup of juice Maggie put next to the sandwich on the counter. “Can I have my lunch now?”

 

“Hands and face,” Magaret reminded her. Bella darted down the hall, the morning’s trauma already forgotten. “Media whores. I’ve half a mind to write a letter to J. Jonah Jameson and give him a piece of my mind.  The man is a bully.” She sighed. “But you’re right. Ignoring him is the answer.”

 

“Hey,” Clint called from the entryway. “The kids home?”

 

“They’re washing up; the coast is clear,” Phil replied.

 

Clint came around the corner with a squirming puppy in his arms. “Little guy’s raring to go.” He set the black and white bundle on the floor. She promptly tumbled over her front paws and righted herself. Phil took in the short legs and barrel chest, the fuzzy baby fur and big blue eyes.

 

“Part Corgi, I take it?” He squatted and held out a hand. The puppy’s rough tongue licked at the ends of his fingers. “Husky? German Shepherd?”

 

“Huskey for sure, but shelter workers didn’t know what else.” Clint hung his jacket over the back of a counter stool.  “She was the only one left; she kept escaping her cage and climbing up the curtains when people came in. There were  five in the litter; had to be a damned cold-hearted bastard who could toss them out beside the road.”

 

Little footfalls sounded followed by a gasp; Josh stared at the puppy, looked up at Clint then Phil and back down to the dog. “Papa?” he asked.

 

“Look who followed me home. Think we ought to keep her?” Clint replied.

 

A beatific smile spread across Josh’s face, his dark eyes sparkling. “Can we, Daddy?”

 

“Well, you’ll have to help take care of her …” Phil began.

 

“BELLA!” Josh shouted. “BELLA, BELLA, BELLA, BELLA!”

 

The puppy abandoned Phil for the new, shorter person in the room, sniffing at Josh’s feet and attacking his shoe lace. The boy sat down with a plop and the dog started right in, licking his face.

 

“We’re not supposed to yell …” Bella stopped, looked at her fathers, squealed then dropped to her knees. Not wanting anyone to be left out, the pup went back and forth between the two kids, licking and barking and running in circles.

 

“Guess we better pick a name,” Clint said, leaning an elbow on the counter and smiling indulgently at the antics. “What do you think, Bella Boo? Any ideas?”

 

“Rocky?” She suggested between giggles; that was her favorite Paw Patrol character.

 

“I was thinking Indiana,” Clint tossed out.

 

“Cosmo?” Phil added.

 

“Dodger.” Josh, laughing so hard he had to drag in a breath to speak. “The dog who helped Oliver.”

 

“Dodger.” Phil looked at Clint who nodded his agreement. “That’s an excellent choice. The Artful Dodger she is; already knows how to escape her cage.”

 

Just then Dodger ran around the end of the couch, squatted and peed on the carpet.

 

“Papa! Dodger pee-peed!” Bella announced.

 

“That’s a bad dog,” Josh said, scooting away from the area. “But she’s too little to know better. Right, Daddy?”

 

Josh’s past reared its head in the most random moments; they could never forget those formative years raised by a drug-addicted mother in terrible living conditions. All they could do was love their kids unconditionally and hope that made a difference.

 

Phil ruffled his son’s hair and smiled. “Exactly right.  We have to teach her to go outside; you want to help me set up her crate so we can get started with her training?”

 

“Me too, Daddy. Me too,” Bella said. “I wanna help.”

Rugs could be cleaned.  Villains could be defeated. Hatred could be overcome with love.  No matter what life threw their way, together they could deal with all of it.  It wasn’t just Clint and Phil and Josh and Bella. Margaret was family. So were Thor and Jane and Torunn, Tony and Pepper, Steve and Bruce and Darcy and Peter and Carol and Wanda and Vision and Pietro and Nick and Maria … Whoever was fomenting unrest didn’t stand a chance against the Avengers.

  


Here’s a corgi husky mix puppy for your viewing pleasure! :)


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